


Sunshine

by Amethyst97Skye



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alistair (Dragon Age) being an Idiot, Banter, Darkspawn, F/M, One Shot, POV Third Person Omniscient, Team Bonding, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:09:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: Solana Amell is everything the Antivan Crow dispises. He only follows where she leads because he owes her a debt. Or, at least, that is what Zevran tells himself.





	Sunshine

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: Additional chapters are a work in process.

**THE LONG ROAD**

By all accounts, Zevran Arainai was a cheerful soul, but presently, he was intensely conflicted, confused, and not just a little insulted. He woke to the face of a beautiful stranger, which was not at all uncommon, though he _had_ hoped to wake to a face he knew, the face that haunted his every breath, dogging his dreams whenever he could safely steal an opportunity to sleep.

This face was unknown to him, a warrior – no, a rogue – he had no knowledge of. His employer had assured him that his targets, the last two Grey Wardens alive in Ferelden, were both men, both warriors, one a Templar, and the other some noble-born brat raised among Ferelden’s court.

First and foremost, the face he was forced to behold was that of a woman, and, in an instant, she was everything he despised. Instead of long, warm, bitter brown hair, hers was a short, cold, but sweetly innocence blonde, and she had a darling face to match, her skin perfectly flawless, untouched by the sun and the hardships of the world.

She spoke slowly, and with such a calm severity that, for a moment, Zevran wondered if he would have been better off dead. When he thought to put up some resistance, to test the waters, as it were, she straddled him, drew a blunt dagger, the act of unsheathing it coating the blade in flame, and she threatened to castrate him if he did not cooperate. In Antivan, no less! He remained resolutely mute throughout the remainder of their exchange, speaking only when spoken to. Behind her stood his targeted party: the blond buffoon of a Temple, the pretentiously prestigious noble-born brat, the dangerously beautiful “Witch of the Wilds”, and the equally dangerous and beautiful Orlesian Bard turn Chantry Sister. Where this foreign fifth character came from, he did not know.

Her terms were quite clear, and despite the protests of her companions, he was of a mind to accept them. She _knew_ things, things she should not know, knowledge no one but he and his employer were privy to, and that meant, somewhere, there was a leak, a hole he could not plug without help if he were to survive retaliation from the Crows for failing. That she knew this, also, provided a strange sort of comfort. He would, had he the option, presented himself as a mercenary on hard times, and in return for coin, he would reveal the secrets of his employer and wash his hands of the whole business. Yet, she knew the nature of his profession, and not once did she protest against, or question, his morals. For some unknown reason… she trusted him.

That misplaced, misguided sense saw her defend him against the nobility, the Chantry, and the Witch who, if she was one to give the rumours any credit, slaughtered children for entertainment, and practised Blood Magic to pass the endless centuries of her immortal life.

When they came to an agreement, one that left him in _her_ care, under _her_ guard, making him _her_ responsibility, she offered a dainty, if callous, hand along with a name. He returned the favour, caught between the desire to kiss her senseless and butcher her beyond recognition, capable of only uttering a single word in his uncharacteristically speechless state.

“Arainai?” she asked. Though she rolled her "r's" luxuriously, the smallest of frowns marred her angelic face. “The House that brought you?”

He nodded with great bravado, hoping it hid his insecurity, and lamented that talk of the Crows inevitably summoned them. This, in turn, cracked the smallest of smiles, but her eyes – a pair of amethysts and sapphires melted down, mixed with lyrium, and brought to a boil – were so irrevocably sad that he was beseeched by the need to console her. A need he vehemently denied himself.

“What is your _real_ name?” she insisted. “The name your mother gave you.”

Judging by the dim spark in her eyes, Zevran was quite sure she already knew, but it was not simply her he was telling: he would be revealing sensitive information detrimental to his health, especially since three out of four of her brooding companions wanted his head on a platter. Or, perhaps a spike. Fereldens had little taste, if any at all, and he spoke from experience, having traded his Antivan leather armour for the finest Ferelden make. It had netted him quite the profit, and he had perilously enjoyed his last few hours of freedom, the hours that, he thought, would be the last of his natural life. Now, however, he wished he had not been so short-sighted; if he were to keep his promise, he would have to find some means of buying back that armour, or hunting down the person who purchased it, if only to keep his survival a secret. Had he sold it through a third party, there would be much less concern on his part of ever being identified, but merchants had better memories than most, and the suspicious dwarf was sure to remember a foreign elf selling such valuable material.

There was nothing for it – he would have to speak to his… “Rescuer” was the wrong word, but it stood closer to the truth than that of “employer”, though he deemed “mistress” a safe alternative. Yes, he would speak to his new mistress about purchasing wears in Denerim, though it would take time to word his concern into a query that belayed any doubt of him being identified. It was, unfortunately, a risk he would have to take, and sooner rather than later.

Having already been drawn to his aching feet, as if he were an equal, there was no time like the present to write his own death sentence. When she smiled, as if proud of him, as if aware how heavily his name weighed upon his shoulders, upon his soul – surely, such a thing was impossible – the wave of guilt that hit nearly sent him flying, though the way her arms enclosed around him, without the slightest hesitation, or hint of repulsion, implied that they had once been intimate acquaintances. Were this true, he would have most assuredly remembered her. In his ears, in Antivan, she whispered a sincere apology, though, for what, he had no idea. A single salty tear brushed his cheek, curling at the corner of his lip, but when she pulled away, her face was no less perfect than before, and when she regarded her friends, none of them seemed to notice how her watery eyes sparkled in the dying sunlight.

“I’m Solana, by the way,” she added, after taking his arm in hers and walking ahead of the group.

“Ah – that is Antivan, no?”

She claimed not to know, having been born in the Free Marchers, and taken to the circle when she was just five years old, all on account of the nightmare that was her fourth birthday party. It was a brutal wakeup call, to be sure, being abandoned by her mother, and Zevran found himself asking after life in the Circle. Though she found the behaviour of her peers scandalous, there was a hearty blush to her pale cheeks, and she possessed a quickness of tongue that revealed the depth of her excitement, her interest, and a deep-seated longing to be loved. She looked back then, at the pairs chatting and laughing behind them, and he was not so heartless as to not offer a distraction. It was information he could use to his advantage, information he wanted her to forget she had so clumsily shared.

Asking after their current destination brought the gravity of their mission to light. They were going home, to her home, specifically, and she shared with him a great deal of information; more than, perhaps, was wise, but there was a soft light in her eyes that exclaimed she knew, and that she did not care in the slightest. He counted the naivety of her misplaced trust to inexperience, but he checked himself quickly. Instead of wearing the robes associated with the Circle, she was clad in plain, Ferelden leather, the armour of a rogue, and she had traded her staff for a pair of daggers. His inquiries were met with another smile.

“I… was at Ostagar,” she explained, the first true edges of hesitancy coating her words. “I know things I shouldn’t, and your employers would look for a mage, not a rogue.”

He had to commend her practicality. He had, however, been a little distracted earlier, preventing him from properly gaging her skills, though the certainty she spoke with, of the horrors that would await them in the Circle, implored that the least he could do would be to give her a few pointers. He could not attest to _liking_ her, but he most certainly did not want to see her die. If she did, her companions would, no doubt, blame him, and he would be right back to where he started, only, this time, without a single ally.

“I don’t want to impose…” she frowned, an expression that did not suit her in the least.

“Nonsense, I insist.”

“But I thought Crow techniques were… 'Scared' isn't the right word, but…”

Her words trailed off as she listened to him laugh. He could not explain why, but he was glad for the light-hearted air with which she spoke. If fear lingered anywhere, he could not see it, could not feel it, and once he caught his breath, Zevran assured her that their skills were learned from experience, that the rigorous training they went through was but one nail in their coffins among many blades. There would be no question of teaching her the abilities exclusive to the Crows, but he could show her how to wield her blades with finesse, how to plant her feet when engaged in direct combat, how to dance around an opponent, and where to stab them to the greatest effect.

“My life is in your hands, Master,” she bowed, winking.

Her words were as sarcastic as they were earnest, and Zevran could not describe the feelings she conjured. When he had the words, he would ask her, ply her for the answers she was only too willing to give, though that would have to wait. Darkness was fast falling upon them. When she asked what he was looking for, he thought the answer obvious. His response made her blush, ashamed.

“I should’ve explained,” she said, by way of an apology. “Darkspawn are nocturnal, so most of the skirmishes we encounter come at night. We sleep during the day to avoid being overwhelmed, and never in the same place twice. Grey Wardens master their Taint, allowing them to sense the Darkspawn, but it also means the Darkspawn can sense them. Does that make sense?”

Indeed, it did, and Zevran made a point of saying so. Solana assured him that, come dawn, they would camp, and that, if he did not have a tent, he was welcome to share hers.

“Morrigan often sleeps alone – well, unless Aedan joins her, but usually he bunks with Alistair, and Leliana brought her own tent. We had to sew two together for Sten because –”

Zevran knew that look, the face of forgetfulness, but he was not in a position to know everything, certainly not how aggressively she was beating herself up over such an inexcusable mistake. All he was preview to was an aggravated eye roll. For an instant, they flashed green, a poisonous shade that made him shiver, but, in the blink of an eye, they were once more a beautiful alluring blue. He could be mistaken for imagining it, though there was no excuse that would pardon him for misinterpreting what followed.

Solana asked him to hold onto her pack, promising to return shortly, kissing his cheek for good measure, before taking to the nearest tree, the tallest of half a dozen, and beginning to climb.

“Er, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Climbing a tree, though, I do not know why.”

“It helps,” she said, simply, as if it was the most obvious answer.

“I am quite sure whatever you have forgotten, in regards to your friend, is not hiding in that tree.”

“I’m a mage, Zevran. Use your imagination.”

In all truth, he had never lain with a mage, and he had no way of knowing if his fantasies could be reciprocated in reality. Such thoughts, however, were shot clear from his mind when, in a flight of fancy, the feisty woman ran the length of a particularly sturdy branch… and jumped. His wild exclaim drew everyone’s attention, and he dropped her pack in favour of running to her, though the chances of catching her, from that height, without breaking her neck, were next to none. Swirls of multicoloured light surrounded her, enveloped her, and suddenly, in place of the woman was a bird, a beautiful golden eagle, a rare sight even this far south. She circled him once before flying off, diving at her companions.

The Templar – Alistair, she told him – slammed himself against the ground, screaming like a child, prompting Morrigan to collapse in a fit of laughter, supported by a cheerful Aedan. Leliana, however, joined him, slipping her hand under his chin to close is slack jaw, uniting his eyes with hers. There was a sharpest to them, a great agony enshrouded in shadow.

“Did she say where she was going?” the Bard asked, as if such a spectacle was an entirely common occurrence.

Zevran muttered something about tents, and someone called Sten, all the while trying to accommodate for this new knowledge.

“Of course, she would worry about the brute,” Morrigan scoffed. “When I flew for aid, she promised to return with word of our success.”

“That was hours ago!” Alistair exclaimed, clamouring to his feet without any of Morrigan’s grace.

“She’ll catch up with us,” Aedan discarded.

He took Solana’s pack from the dry grassy bank Zevran had hurled in upon. They exchanged a look, one that, on Aedan’s part, seemed to challenge the assassin to lay claim on her possessions, few and practical as they were, but Zevran was far too bewildered to complain or compile a witty retort to deflect his apprehension. What would people say if the Crows could turn into the animal of their designation? They were not uncommon creatures, but to remain invisible to them all would be a feat indeed, one Zevran acknowledged he could not very well accomplish alone. As they walked, it was lengthily explained to him that Morrigan, a Shapeshifter, had taught Solana her craft, at the mage's explicit insistence, and he agreed it was an indisputable skill, one he could certainly see the benefits of, especially upon learning of it rare practice. This earned him her good graces, and a civil discussion about magic and mages in Antiva. Discovering that, like Rivain, the Chantry and Circle held no _real_ power, that mages were free to try their dice at becoming Crows or pirates, and that most merchants held their abilities in high regard, it created no end of ripples among the party. It offered him an unadulterated view of their perplexing personalities. 

A most riveting debate of Chantry politics was interrupted by a sudden screech. As one, they looked to the sky. Leliana pointed to a flash of gold as the last rays of sunlight dipped below the horizon. Surrounding it was a small clan of black feathered shadows, and their whimsical flight path prevented the Bard from pinpointing a target. Instead, with Morrigan’s aid, she fired a single arrow, alight with mage fire, a beacon that drew the battle ever closer, granting them an unobstructed view of the eagle’s assailants.

They were not birds, not in any traditional sense of the word. Blighted beasts, living skeletons with vines of diseased flesh hanging like chains, their giant frames caked in the blood and bodily fluids of a fresh kill.

“Don’t let them bite you!” Aedan ordered, gesturing for them to spread out.

Diving at an incredible speed, then banking left and right, twining through the tree trunks, Leliana was given a clear shot, sending one creature hurling to the ground. Alistair granted it a swift death. Morrigan clapped a second in a spiked sphere of ice, permitting Aedan to shatter it, and Zevran let lose a dagger at the third, which Solana wrestled it into submission, soaring back with the blade clutched between her talons. In the instant she transformed, before anyone could even take a breath, Solana was ranting about a besieged fishing village to the southwest, a diversion from their course, but no one voiced any protest. Beyond a few shallow gashes, of which she seemed unaware of, Solana was in good health, but there was a wild, energetic spirit in her eyes that Morrigan, for all her predatory grace, could not reciprocate.


End file.
